Death Speaks Softly (5 page)

Edna was seated at the kitchen table, polishing silver and keeping up an endless stream of chatter. Claire had been edging towards the door for the last ten minutes, but had not yet managed to escape.

'So I said to her, "Mrs Davis, if you ask me, you brought it on yourself." "What do you mean, Edna?" she goes. "Well," I says, "just think what you let her get away with.

Stands to reason," I says, "she thinks she's got a free hand. After all—'"

Claire switched off
, depending on intermittent nods of agreement to disguise her inattention. It was a unique relationship she shared with Edna, going back to the summer they were both ten years old, and the shy, thin child had watched her playing on her swing. As a result, Edna had a certain licence; reprimands had to be couched in such diplomatic language that Tom maintained only an expert in lateral thinking would realize one had been administered. A verbatim reporter, Edna was convinced of Claire's innate interest in all she said and did, and Claire hadn't the heart to disillusion her. Consequently, unless she made some excuse and left the house as soon as Edna arrived, Tuesday and Friday mornings were a write-off.

"'—and if you don't put your foot down," I says, "you mark my words, Mrs Davis, your Sandra'll be no better than that flighty young French miss they're all looking for, and you wouldn't want that, now would you?"'

Claire's attention snapped back. 'What did you say?'

Edna paused gratefully for breath, pushing her glasses into position with a polish-blackened finger. 'Well, Miss Claire, I felt it was time to speak plain. That young Sandra needs her bottom spanking, if you ask me.'

'The French girl,' Claire interrupted. 'You know about her?'

'It's in all the papers, isn't it? Of course, I hope no harm comes to her, but carrying on like that she was asking for it, in my opinion.'

Claire was very still. 'Carrying on like what?'

Edna sniffed. 'No better than she should be, if you ask me. I've seen her several times around the town, always with a different lad in tow. Oh, she
looked
proper enough, I grant you—except when she was in the car that time.'

'What car? When?'

'Lord love us, Miss Claire, how do I know? A week or two back, at least.' 'Where was the car?'

'In Farthing Lane, just up from Mrs King's.'

Claire's mouth was dry.
Simon's
car? Her brief panic subsided. No, Simon's car was distinctive, to say the least, and Edna knew it well. An ancient and battered sports car in several shades of green, Sarah had christened it The Hesperus, and the name stuck. It was safe to ask, 'Did you see who the man was?'

Edna sniffed again, disapproval on her face. 'I've got better things to do than spy on courting couples. Anyway, I could only see the back of his head—though come to think of it, he'd got a bald patch on top. I remember thinking he was older than her usual. Shouldn't be surprised if he was married.'

Was the information worth passing to Simon? It sounded very vague.

'Anyway,' Edna continued, reverting to her original theme, 'you don't expect any different of foreigners, but you don't want a local girl to go that way, do you?'

Claire hoped devoutly that Edna's opinion of local girls would never be diminished. 'No,' she agreed prudently, 'you certainly don't.'

The campus of Broadshire University was landscaped to take advantage of its unique position. From the main Bridge Road, a long driveway wound through rows of trees, with frequent paths leading off signposted to different Halls of Residence—West Park, Avon, Somerset. As they drove, they continually passed groups of students with satchels and bundles of books under their arms, making their way either to or from the main faculty buildings. Eventually the avenue of trees opened into a large space like the centre of a village.

'Doesn't mention the French Department,'Jackson said, peering at the different arms of the signpost.

'It'll be the Arts building,' Webb told him, primed by Marshbanks.

'What's French got to do with drawing?' Jackson demanded, but he turned the car in the direction indicated and they drove into the car park. Inside the building, they approached the porter's desk and the man looked up from his newspaper.

'Yes, gentlemen? What can I do for you?'

'Chief Inspector Webb and Sergeant Jackson. We'd like a word with Professor Warwick, if it's convenient.'

'Ah, you've come about Miss Picard, I suppose. Worrying business. You want the French corridor, sir. Up those stairs and through the swing doors on your left. The secretaries will help you.'

However, when they reached the first floor, it was to learn that the Professor was lecturing. Webb asked instead for Mr Duncan.

He was a broad-shouldered Scot in his mid-thirties, with a thatch of dark hair and a small beard. He did not seem overjoyed to see them.

'There's not much I can tell you,' he began discouragingly as they seated themselves. 'I hardly know Miss Picard. I can't imagine why you think I can help you.'

'She mentioned your name, sir,' Webb said stolidly.

The man looked alarmed. 'To whom?'

'A girlfriend.'

'I can't think why. She sometimes sits at my table in the refectory, but I've no other contact with her.' 'What's your impression of her?'

'Och, she's a bright enough girl. Cheerful and friendly.' 'Any particular friends?'

He shrugged. 'Charlie Peterson, Mike Partridge . . .' His voice tailed off.

'Do you ever see her off the campus, sir?'

Duncan flushed. 'I'm a married man, Chief Inspector. With children.'

Webb smiled slightly. 'That hardly answers my question.'

'I thought it did. But if you want it more plainly, no, I do not see her outside working hours. And hardly at all during them.'

I'm not sure I believe you, Webb thought. The man was quite presentable, and Arlette herself much sought after. It would be natural for them to come together. Yet he couldn't probe further in the face of such firm denial. Not yet, anyway. He tried another tack.

'Where were you, sir, between ten a.m. and two p.m. on Tuesday?'

The flush deepened. 'Why?'

'Because that's the time we're interested in.'

'As it happens, I'd a dental appointment at eleven.' He looked at them belligerently. 'If I'd known she was going missing, I'd have changed it.'

'And your dentist is—?'

For a moment, Webb thought he'd refuse to reply. But he sullenly gave name and address.

'And you came straight back here afterwards?'

'No. The surgery's not far from where I live, so I went home for lunch. As my wife will verify.'

Jackson marvelled that anyone could still think a wife's evidence would exonerate him.

'So what time did you get back, sir?'

'About two. I'd a tutorial at two-fifteen.'

Webb nodded without comment. 'Did Miss Picard mention being homesick, or any family worries?'

'Certainly not to me.'

Webb felt the wall of the man's resistance. Was it merely a clash of personalities, or had he something to hide? He said easily and with no inflection of irony, 'Thank you very much for your time, Mr Duncan. You've been most helpful.'

'Like a stone giving blood,' added Jackson, as the door closed behind them.

'Not everyone appreciates us, Ken. A policeman's lot, and all that.'

'If you ask me he's been having it off with her. See how red he went?'

'Let's not jump to conclusions. If we need to come back, we will, never fear.'

Arnold Lightbody was a different proposition. In his late forties, he wore thick pebble spectacles. He had tufts of straw-like hair round the sides of his head, but his high forehead stretched back as far as his crown. He smiled continually, showing yellow teeth.

'Well now, gentlemen,' he began, before Webb could say anything, 'you're worried about our little Arlette. So are we all.'

'I'll be grateful for anything you can tell us, sir.' 'A charming girl. Most attractive, if you understand me. And very popular.' 'With women too?'

Lightbody smirked. 'Now that you ask me,' he said coyly, 'I should say the young ladies are less enthusiastic. Possibly because she has the male population eating out of her hand.'

'Including you, Dr Lightbody?'

Lightbody laughed merrily, stopping when the policemen remained serious. 'I'm a little old for that kind of thing, Inspector. No, I was referring to postgraduates. Her contemporaries.'

'And the other tutors?'

'Dear me, I never thought of that. I suppose it's possible.'

While appearing to give them full cooperation, Lightbody told them very little. He had apparently been on campus throughout the crucial time on Tuesday. Like Duncan, he claimed surprise that Arlette should have spoken of him.

Somewhat dispiritedly, the policemen made their way outside and stood for a moment looking about them. Ahead of them was the administrative building, and beyond it, grassy banks sloped fairly steeply down to the river. On the opposite bank, the old town basked in the spring sunshine, its Cotswold stone glowing cream and gold.

'Do these kids know how lucky they are?' Jackson asked rhetorically. 'A bit different from Leyton Road Grammar! I never knew what I was missing.' He turned to Webb with a grin, his envy vanishing. 'Mind, I know what I'm missing now, and that's food! Any good pubs hereabouts, Guv?'

'I think we'll try the Barley Mow. It's that grain barge moored on the quayside. All the young bloods frequent it —we might learn something to our advantage. Look,' he added, 'there's Sergeant Hopkins. Let's have a quick word.'

The gloomy-faced sergeant, with a young constable beside him, had just emerged from the faculty building and turned towards the car park. Webb and Jackson quickened their footsteps to catch up with them.

'Good morning, Sergeant. How's it going?'

Hopkins nodded a surly greeting. 'Not too bad, sir. We managed to track down a couple of names on your list, with leads to the others.'

'Anything of interest?'

'Hard to tell. They don't seem unduly worried. Think she's probably gone off on a whim and will turn up when it suits her.'

'Has she done that before?'

Hopkins shrugged, but the young constable spoke up, blushing as he did so. 'I think it's just that she's such a cheerful girl, sir. People can't imagine anything happening to her.'

'Let's hope they're right,' Webb said grimly. 'You going back to May bury Street?' Hopkins nodded. 'Tell DI Ledbetter I've seen Duncan and Lightbody, and will be in touch later.'

There was nowhere near the barge to park the car. They left it by the viaduct and walked back along the riverside, enjoying the sun on the water and the warmth of it on their backs. Children ran, calling, along the narrow path towards them, a small dog yapping at their heels, and on their left some half-dozen cottages nestled into the hillside, their neat little gardens blazing with flowers. On the far side of the river, the grass bank reached up towards the buildings they'd just left, its green expanse dotted with colour as groups of students relaxed in the sunshine or ate an
al fresco
lunch.

As they neared the pub, the path widened into biscuit-coloured cobbles and there were tables with umbrellas and groups of people eating and drinking.

'We'll hear more if we go inside,' Webb murmured, and they walked together up the gangplank and into the little boat.

A wide, polished staircase led below into what had once been the hold of the barge. Jackson followed Webb down and looked about him approvingly. The conversion was imaginative, keeping a nautical flavour while providing a pleasant and unique bar, with tables round the walls beneath the small round portholes. On the walls were framed prints of barges and steamboats, and at the end hung a lifebelt with the name
Barley Mow
painted on it, flanked by port and starboard lamps. The room was filled with a laughing, chattering crowd of customers.

Webb and Jackson hitched themselves on to bar stools, ordering beer and Cornish pasties. A burst of laughter sounded from the table immediately behind them as some ribald joke reached its conclusion. The average age of the clientele was well below thirty, Webb guessed, and he felt more conspicuous than he'd have liked. Then, as the crowd behind lapsed into brief silence, a girl's voice reached them from another table.

'The fuzz were up at the Uni this morning—did you know?'